Life Is Like A Box Of Bugs
by Perivates
Summary: ...in that you never know what you're gonna get, and sometimes it comes out all gooey. A slowly growing collection of drabbles, just because I get struck with random ideas. StanKyle. Newest drabble: In Lieu of Ladders
1. Refusal

**Refusal **

"Do it."

"No way, dude."

"God dammit Stan, just do it!"

"No."

Kyle crossed his arms to keep them from reaching out to smack his supposed Super Best Friend, whom he was currently glaring daggers at. When the other gave no indication of giving in, he sighed. "Come on, Stan. I trust you more than anyone. Please?"

Stan groaned. "Kyle..."

"It's just one little favor!"

"Dude, don't ask me to do something like that."

"I don't see how it's such a big deal."

"It is! Do you have any idea how much your mom's gonna flip out when she finds out?"

"Maybe I want to do it _because _it'll make her freak."

Then it was Stan's turn to glare. "Oh gee, thanks a whole fucking lot, I sure feel appreciated."

"Aw come on dude, I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm still not doing it."

At that point, Kyle's frustration mounted to a shriek, and he threw his head into his arms on the lunch table.

Kenny looked from Kyle's twitching form to Stan's annoyed yet concerned expression. "What the hell are you two arguing about?"

"Isn't it obvious? The little Jew fairy wants his boyfriend to make out with him."

Stan rolled his eyes. "I'm not cutting Kyle's hair. I like his 'fro just the way it is."

Kyle lifted his face from the nest he'd made of his arms. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, dude." He couldn't resist smirking as he reached across the short distance to lock his fingers into the redhead's curls. "It makes it easier to do this." With that, he pulled Kyle's head up from the table and easily guided his lips to his own.

Kyle never did cut his hair after that.

* * *

A/N: Couldn't resist. XD; Dunno whether or not the idea has been done before, but hell, who _doesn't_ like the Jewfro? Anyway, I might end up turning this into a series of drabbles - it all depends on whether anyone likes this or not. 


	2. The Internet Makes You Gay

**The Internet Makes You Gay**_  
_

_Delreid41 has signed on_

**StanTheMan444:** hey there!  
**Delreid41: **Yo man, what's up?

A dorky grin spread across Stan's face when his instant messenger buddy alert sounded. No matter how much homework he had or how tired he was from football practice, he made sure to log onto his instant messenger program every night.

He didn't used to be such an IM junkie, and truth be told, he still wasn't much of one. He mostly just used it to ask classmates for homework assignments he missed, if it was a class he didn't share with Kyle.

But there was this one guy who he'd come to talk to on a regular basis; he'd apparently found his IM handle through MySpace and was just looking for some friends to chat with.

**StanTheMan444:** not much, just finished my homework. god, I hate trig, I don't get it at all.  
**Delreid41: **Haha, sucks for you. :p  
**Delreid41:** Considered getting a tutor?

Stan had realized early on one of the major perks of online friendships: relative anonymity. He could tell this guy just about anything without having to worry about being mocked or judged. Similarly, his new friend seemed just as open in return, confiding things in Stan that he otherwise didn't mention in day to day life.

Sometimes, Stan really appreciated having someone to talk to about the things he couldn't tell anyone else. But other times, he wished he could be more open with others... specifically with Kyle.

**StanTheMan444: **naw dude, I don't need a tutor!! not yet, at least.  
**Delreid41: **Aww, come on, I'm sure you're just dying to ask that "super best friend" of yours. Hehe

Warmth raced to his cheeks. Yeah, there were _definitely _some things he didn't want to talk to Kyle about.

**StanTheMan444: **hey, stfu!  
**Delreid41: **Relax man, you know I'm just poking fun.  
**Delreid41: **But seriously, don't you think you ought to talk to him about it eventually?

Stan groaned. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to tell someone - a near-stranger, at that! - about his stupid little boycrush on his best friend. After all, if people were really close for a long enough time, they'd start feeling funny at some point or another. It was normal. Right? Didn't mean he had to act on it or anything. Nope, it would pass eventually, and then he'd look back years later and laugh about it.

...Though he seriously hoped it wouldn't take years to get over it.

**StanTheMan444:** no, I don't. in fact, I think that would be a really, really, stupendously BAD idea  
**Delreid41:** Don't you think it's possible that he might feel the same way?  
**StanTheMan444:** possible? yeah. likely, no  
**Delreid41:** Pussy.

Stan snorted. Even if Kyle did, by some insane miracle, feel the same way, it wouldn't have mattered. He didn't want to risk ruining their friendship just because of his stupid hormones acting up.

**StanTheMan444: **maybe. but I don't wanna risk ruining our friendship, it's too important to me  
**Delreid41:** And you're just gonna assume that you're not just as important to him?  
**StanTheMan444:** pfft, what, now you can read his thoughts? you some kinda psychic?  
**Delreid41: **Haha, maybe, but that's not the point.  
**Delreid41: **You really ought to open up to him. He's your best friend, yeah? Try trusting him.  
**StanTheMan444:** I DO trust him! I just... I don't wanna screw everything up

He was starting to get a headache. Why couldn't the one person he'd told at least be on his side in this?

**StanTheMan444: **ugh, brb, I need some air  
**Delreid41: **Fine dude, but one last thing before you go.  
**Delreid41: **If he was in your place, wouldn't you want him to tell you?  
_StanTheMan444 has signed off _

* * *

Kyle leaned back in his desk chair and stared at his ceiling for several long minutes, before sighing and logging off his "secret" IM handle. 

"God dammit Stan..."


	3. Twilight

**Twilight **

There were four seasons in South Park: winter, still winter, even more winter, and summer. Summer, though brief, was Kyle's favorite. Not because of the freedom from school, or even because it was a reprieve from the otherwise constant snow. It was because he could stay outdoors long into the evening without needing to encase himself in multiple layers of clothes.

It wasn't really that he minded needing the extra warmth most of the year; but there was just something so uplifting about being able to _feel _the sun on your face and grass under your feet, to swim in Stark's Pond rather than skate on its frozen surface. It was like stepping out of their usual world and into an entirely different plane of existence for a month or two - a place where all worries could be put aside for a time, leaving only relaxation and contentment in the wake.

At least, that was what Kyle would have liked to believe; but that image of summer was broken every time Cartman opened his big fat mouth.

The fatass and Kenny were bickering about something as usual, though Kyle had no idea what about nor did he have any desire to find out. He let out a long sigh, wishing they'd just _shut the hell up_ and let him enjoy the peace, but of course he'd never say as much, because then Cartman would assuredly put actual effort into pissing him off.

Trying to ignore the two, who seemed to be vying for dibs on the food they'd packed for the day, Kyle turned his attention from the pond's shore to its center. There was Stan, floating on his back, doing the occasional flip or handstand or other acrobatic trick. As he surfaced from his last flip, he noticed Kyle looking his way and grinned.

"Hey dude, come on, the water's not that cold!"

Kyle just laughed and shook his head. He'd been swimming earlier and had since dried off, but the sun was beginning to set. He had no intention of walking home cold and wet.

Just then, a flash of orange sped through Kyle's peripheral vision. If Cartman's whiny shrieks and declaration of "Screw you guys, I'm going home!" were any indication, it seemed Kenny had managed to pry the food from the other's pudgy fingers and make his great escape. Good for him.

Kyle sighed again, but this time, it was accompanied by a smile. Ah, peace and quiet. No shrill disturbances during his favorite time of day.

He liked watching the transition from day to night well enough year round, but being able to lay outside and watch the shifting colors without the worry of frostbite... that was the greatest part of summer.

Fiery gold raced along the horizon, setting off pink and violet tinges just above. As the sun itself disappeared, all the bright colors danced and merged, diffusing upwards into blue. When these colors dipped too low to be visible anymore, they left in their wake the sight that Kyle had been waiting for.

Blue. From pale cornflower at the edge of the sky, every shade of blue streamed upward, bleeding into indigo far, far above.

And somewhere, in those millions of shades of blue, was the one that matched his favorite pair of eyes. The ones he dared not gaze into for too long, for fear that they might catch something in his own eyes. But he could gaze at the sky for as long as twilight remained.


	4. Mother's Prerogative

**Mother's Prerogative **

Sheila Broflovski knew perfectly well what a good percentage of the town thought of her. It was difficult _not _to notice, between that pudgy boy's little _song _about her which she'd had the misfortune of overhearing quite a few times (though at least her dear son always retaliated against the other boy's antics), and the more than exasperated reaction of most of the town's younger population every time she took up a new cause.

Yes, she was a passionate woman, and she prided herself on that. If that made her a "bitch," well, so be it, even if it was a crude term that she hoped never to hear from her own darling children's lips.

She was also a woman who held strong family values, though she could admit that perhaps she came across as a bit overbearing some of the time. But she certainly didn't see that as being something negative. In fact, more people should have such a firm set of values; then perhaps the world might not be so oppressive to her children's generation!

And of course, she was a protective mother. She was the momma bear, fiercely guarding her cubs from a world that would cause them harm as soon as her ever watchful glance wavered. If she had to metaphorically bite off a few heads to get the point across that no one messed with her children, well, she failed to see a problem with that.

The only problem, as far as Sheila was concerned, was that her otherwise positive attributes seemed to terrify her sons to the point of being loathe to confide _anything _in her. Did she not put them above all other priorities? Was she nothing but a caring mother, in the most extreme sense?

And, for Moses' sake, wasn't it obvious enough that she was more than slightly open when it came to sexuality? Between all of the issues with Gerald, which she was certain her boys were aware of, shouldn't they at least be able to figure out that she wouldn't punish them for being a little different? She was quite sure that Kyle knew of their attempts to fix Gerald's... dysfunction, and he probably knew about Gerald and Randy's adventure in Mr. Mackey's jacuzzi, since half the town had heard Randy's little kerfuffle over it when it had happened. And maybe he knew about that time she had paid Chef for sex with Gerald in the next room over, completely aware and consenting to the whole thing, as it _was _for a good cause.

If her bubbeleh knew any of that, which she was sure he did, then why the blazes did he feel such a persistent need to hide his more than obvious relationship with that Stanley boy?

Oi. Children certainly were strange creatures. Especially boys. Boys always were awkward when it came to sexuality... or at least, when it came to discussing the matter with their mothers.

Hmph. Well, if Kyle was going to be so avoidant about it, she would just have to be direct, wouldn't she? After all, she needed to make sure they were being careful and taking precautions. It was a mother's prerogative to worry; at least with this situation, she didn't need to worry about her bubby knocking up some young girl.

"Kyle, bubby!" She knocked on her elder son's door. She was certain that she could hear noises on the other side, indicating muffled curses and frantic shifting of bedsheets.

"Uhh... yes, mom?!"

"Kyle, let me in."

"Can't it, uh, wait until morning?" His voice was almost pleading, but oh no, they were going to have this conversation _now_, while Stanley was over, so that she wouldn't need to go over this multiple times.

"No, it cannot. Now throw on some pants and open the door this minute! That goes for you as well, Stanley."

The only response she received for that was the easily recognized sound of choked horror. She'd know that sound anywhere from how often Kyle made it, though she couldn't for the life of her figure out why he was so easily embarrassed by, well, everything. A few moments later, after a bit of shuffling, the door creaked open to reveal her son's wide, panic-stricken eyes. "...Yes, mom?"

"I just wanted to make sure that you two know what you're doing. I don't care if it feels better without a condom; it's better to be safe than sorry. Also, you might want to keep it down. Your father's been complaining about the noise for weeks now."

Two pairs of eyes stared at her, but neither spoke a word; they were too busy catching flies, or so it seemed from the way their mouths hung open.

"And Kyle, stop trying to wash your sheets on your own. You know you're terrible at doing laundry, I don't know why you bother - you never get the stains out completely. If you want, I'll write out explicit instructions for you, otherwise just tell me you need clean sheets."

She was pretty sure she saw her son twitch at that, but it really needed to be addressed. The way he went about cleaning up after himself was a complete waste of water.

"Well, that's all. Goodnight, boys."

As soon as the door closed, she was quite certain she heard that horrified choking noise again, as well as one clear sentence from her son's boyfriend:

_"Dude... you have either the weirdest or coolest mom on the planet."_

Sheila smiled; she liked to consider herself both.


	5. Rationality

**Rationality **

Who is your best friend? What defines him? Can a "best friend" ever truly be defined?

At age eight, he was the boy you saved and abandoned more times than either of you could count; you would do anything for him, and yet you turned away over things that later seemed so stupid, so petty. But you were so young then, and that was what children did, how they interacted. At least, that is what you tell yourself, but you still don't feel that justifies anything.

He was the boy you would have done anything for. You were willing to carve the fatass up to save him from dying of kidney failure. You dodged bullets and explosions for him, all for the sake of one stupid grade that meant so much to him. You were responsible for a storm that ravaged San Francisco and could have killed him and his family, all because you were trying so hard to bring him back home, back where he belonged, back to you. You were terrified when he wouldn't leave that cult, and did all you could to rescue him.

And yet he was also the boy whom you turned away from while still calling him your super best friend. You turned him away when he would not accept your dedication to your own cult, brief as that was. You watched him getting beaten up for not being "gay" enough, during that stupid metrosexual fad. You fought with him, actually out-and-out fought with him, over the name of some poor 90's guy you found frozen in ice. You even fought with him over Bebe's boobs, for God's sake, even though neither of you really understood it at the time. You shut him out when he tried to pull you out of the holes you kept digging yourself into with Wendy, again and again.

But the worst of it was when you put a gun to his head. A real gun, not one of the imaginary ones you'd use so often in your games, with real bullets, that could have really killed him. You never intended to fire it, but you still pointed it at him, you still put him in death's path. All for what? To save yourself from an embarrassing truth?

For being super best friends, you certainly tested the extent of that friendship. Even with all the shit you put him through, the good points must have somehow outweighed the bad. And so he kept you around. No... you kept each other around.

Is that what it's all about? Testing the strength of your bond? You're not sure, but you think that must be the case; that some part of you yearns for the constant affirmation that yes, you truly are dedicated to each other and no matter what shit you put each other through, at the end of the day, you'll still be there for one another.

After all, you need to rationalize your relationship, something that never can truly be rationalized. It's all you can do, because you need a reason. You can't just accept that you push and pull at each other for no reason at all. There has to be a reason for everything.

There has to be a reason why he kissed you.

Because you know, deep down, that neither of you is willing to risk your friendship. It's what's gotten you through the years, through elementary school and high school, to college and out of that hick mountain town you used to call home.

Yet that's what he's doing. By starting this, that's exactly what he's doing, and it scares you to death.

What if he decides later that it was a mistake? What if you decide it was a mistake? What then? Can you really just pick up the pieces after it's broken and go back to the way things once were? It's never that simple.

Or what if it isn't what you think - what if he's just trying to see how you react? To see if you're queer, to see if you like it or hate it... to see if you want it.

Maybe he wants it.

Maybe there is no rationalizing this. Maybe it's just what you both need, what you both want, and it's the only direction you can go. You need the affirmation that he'll always be there for you, and he needs it too.

There is no turning back. And even as you hope and pray that this doesn't all come crashing down around you and kill you both, you know that you wouldn't turn back even if you could.

There is no rationalizing this kind of love.


	6. Hothead

A/N: I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself, but "Night of the Living Homeless" really called for something like this. XD

* * *

**Hothead **

He was doing that _thing _again. And it pissed Kyle the fuck off.

He didn't know why Stan did it. Maybe his brain just went on vacation for a while. Hell if he knew. But that was no excuse; there was no way he could _not _know how much it drove Kyle crazy, since he was very vocal in his irritation. No, Stan must have known, yet he did it anyway. That fucking bastard.

"God _dammit _Stan, knock it off!"

And, of course, all Stan did was raise an eyebrow at the outburst. As if Kyle was insane and his anger completely unprovoked. Oh, that _asshole_.

Sweat slicked his palms as he clenched them, digging his fists into his jeans so that he wouldn't lash out. Kyle felt heat swelling in his face; he was sure his skin's coloring must have rivaled that of his hair by that point. Teeth clenched and ground together, which only made his headache worse, but it was either that or start screaming.

"Stan." A final warning.

"Yeah?" There was nothing but innocence in those bright blue eyes of his Not even a trace of guilt.

And so Kyle's last nerve snapped.

He lunged at the other boy, a growl in his throat and his fists pummeling Stan's gut. Within seconds Kyle had Stan pinned to the carpet. He felt a murderous look contorting his face, but he didn't care. Sure, he wouldn't _actually _kill Stan, but he felt like taking him damn close to that edge.

"What's _wrong _with you?! Stop... just... augh, fucking stop!"

But Stan didn't say a word. His face was blank, expressionless, as if he couldn't react or even comprehend what was happening.

He should have been apologizing. Or looking worried, concerned, scared. Anything!

Another growl tore from Kyle's throat. "You'd better start apologizing you asshole, before I beat it out of you!" He shifted, to try to get a better hold in case Stan started to struggle...

And that was when he felt it - that familiar bulge, pressing against his ass.

Stan must have seen the shock register, because the corner of his lips tweaked up, slowly spreading into a smile, then a full-out grin.

"...I can't fucking believe you."

"Dude, I can't help it. You're hot when pissed off."

"Then _that's_ what this has all been about?!"

"Mmhm." Stan looked pretty damn pleased with himself. So, of course, Kyle had to punch him.

"You're such an asshole."

If he weren't so annoyed, he might have smiled. Instead, he decided to show Stan just how pissed off he was; if he couldn't walk afterwards, well, that would be his own damn fault. 


	7. Labels

**Labels **

Some may say that Pat Benetar got it right when she sang that "Love is a battlefield." However, almost any teenager could give a much more appropriate example of that comparison.

_High school_ was a battlefield. Instead of squadrons and troops, there were cliques and smaller slightly less exclusive circles of friends, and rather than fire and bullets hurtling through the air with thunderous racket, in this place where barracks and trenches were replaced with lockers and classrooms, the weapons of choice were words. Whether derogative hollers across halls or breathless whisperings of gossip, they were all capable of delivering stinging blows to whomever they concerned.

So wouldn't it just make sense to step back? To remove yourself from the battle entirely, to not concern yourself with the useless words of others, and simply go through the day without seeing the madness of war hiding behind every face in the sea of student warriors?

If you don't care what they think, then they can't hurt you; their fire and bullets turn to chaff on the wind. Gun-toting soldiers twist and change to yappy little mongrels, nipping from time to time without permanent damage caused.

It really was the best way to deal with it all, not dealing with it at all.

After all, who were they to act as they did? First to jump to conclusions and spread rumors, then to judge and jeer based on nothing but their own words... It was madness. The two wanted no part in the raving lunacy, and so they ignored it as best they could. Of course they still heard the words, just as one would hear the whistling wind, but that was all they were - wind and air, something that simply was and would be, something that would continue on unaffected by their reactions, if they'd even had any at all.

It didn't matter what they thought or what they said. All that mattered to the two were each other, and they didn't need any external opinion to tell them what they were and what that meant.

So what if Stan had gotten tired of chasing after Wendy so many years ago? So what if Kyle had only ever shown the briefest of interest in girls equally long ago? Girls were a foreign concept to them - something that could have occasionally made them feel funny and act equally so, but that didn't mean they understood them, or even really wanted to.

But back then, they still cared about social norms and following the crowd. At least, Stan did. If everyone else was jumping from their burning bridges to seek new ones to clamber over, then by god, so was he, even if Kyle did roll his eyes and tell Stan he was being retarded.

Still, Kyle would sometimes go along with Stan's less than brilliant ideas. Sometimes just to offer company to Stan, sometimes to try to make sure his best friend didn't do anything too stupid that he would regret later; sometimes a combination of the two. But other times, he went along just for the hell of it. Not that he necessarily expected positive outcomes, but sometimes the ideas that wheedled into Stan's head didn't sound all that bad.

Like that time when Stan had overheard some of the girls talk about practicing kissing with each other so that they'd be good at it when doing it with boys. He didn't know people could even _do _that! So of course he had to tell his best friend, to see what he thought of it. Kyle had been unimpressed, and said it was stupid to "practice" kissing; you were either doing it or you weren't.

But Stan didn't care. He didn't want to throw up whenever he kissed a girl, so practicing had sounded like a great idea. Kyle still thought it was pretty stupid, but the idea had already burrowed into Stan's mind and taken hold.

Kyle didn't know if he went along with it to make sure that Stan wouldn't get hurt by doing it with someone else, or because he hadn't cared at all or had cared too much. Maybe it was all and none of the above.

All he knew was that he'd never once seen Stan looking at girls throughout any of that time.

Stan had eventually stopped calling it practicing.

They'd eventually done more than not-practicing.

And eventually, the whispers had started.

But did that really make them gay, or even "together" necessarily? Maybe by default, but it wasn't a willful act of self-labeling. They weren't gay, since they never did those things with anyone else, let alone even want to do so. They weren't "together" because they'd always been together, and saying it like that only twisted the word.

They were Super Best Friends; that was all the label they needed. All the rest was words carried away on the wind.


	8. Rain

**Rain**

Kyle did _not _like rain.

Sure, he understood that it was a necessary aspect of the environment and the various cycles within the ecosystem. But that didn't mean he had to like it - or, more specifically, its immediate effects on his surroundings.

There had always been the hair thing, how it would frizz and stand on end with the slightest hint of humidity, though it was infinitely worse in his childhood. Back then, he was loathe to have any product touch the wild mass of curls on his head; he'd much rather stuff the ungodly mess under his trusty ushanka. But eventually he'd outgrown his dear hat, which had nearly disintegrated from age by that point anyway, and gel started looking like a preferable option to replacing his headgear.

Now, Kyle raked a hand through the curls framing his face as he glared out the passenger window. His gel was starting to lose hold, and that just pissed him off even more than he'd already been.

The main reason he was pissed was because he was stuck in a stuffy car, windows rolled up tight against the pounding rain, while Stan muttered and cursed at the damned jalopy's uncanny knack for getting stuck in the mud.

"I _told _you not to take the back roads."

"There's nothing _but _back roads!"

Kyle just rolled his eyes at Stan's all too reasonable argument and snapped his gum in annoyance, though the cinnamon flavor had vanished about ten miles back. God, he hated this car. Randy had given his old car to Stan as a gift when he'd been accepted into college, but really, it might have been more appropriate to call it a curse. He had jokingly dubbed it the Beast after the rather bumpy ride up to Denver for their first term on campus, but now the name had become a veritable curse in and of itself.

Stan's foot kept slamming on the gas, in some vain hope that it might have a different effect than the past fifty attempts. Wheels revved and squealed and spat mud everywhere, but the damned car absolutely refused to budge. Finally, he let out a defeated groan.

"Fuck. We're gonna have to push it."

Oh no. Oh _no_, he did _not_. No. Fucking. Way.

"_We?_"

"Do you _want _to spend the night in the middle of buttfucking nowhere?"

"_South Park_ is buttfucking nowhere."

"You know what I mean!"

Kyle just crossed his arms and gave Stan his best _'you have got to be shitting me'_ look.

And so Stan growled as he fumbled with his seatbelt. "_Fine_. Stay in here, but when I can't move the fucking thing, you'd better come out and help me. Prissy bitch..."

"_What was that?_"

But Stan had already disappeared into the muggy storm; his only response was the slam of the door. With no one left to take out his frustration on, Kyle muttered to himself that the damned asshole was gonna get himself filthy and probably catch cold and then blame him for it. Peachy.

Grudgingly, he clambered over to the driver's side, ready to hit the gas as soon as Stan indicated he was ready. When he saw the other nod through the rear view mirror, he gunned it.

All _that _did was spin up more mud, which hit Stan and knocked him off his feet.

Kyle rubbed his palm over his face. _Fan-fucking-tastic._

"Stan?" He shouted. When no response came, he tried again. "Stan, you okay?" Still, nothing.

"God dammit." He suspected that Stan was just trying to get him out of the damn car, which pissed him off. But if Stan really _was _hurt, well, Kyle would _still _be pissed off, because it was a fucking stupid idea in the first place.

He climbed from the car, and instantly what little control his weakening gel had held over his hair was lost. All he could do was growl and spit his gum into the churning mud at his feet, kicking angrily at it with the toe of his boot.

"Stan, you asshole, you'd better not be hurt or I'm gonna kill you," he grumbled as he walked the length of the car towards the trunk.

When he reached the rear fender, he expected to find Stan knocked on his ass in the mud. What he _didn't_ expect was finding himself knocked back against the Beast.

"What the fu-" He didn't have time to finish that thought; hungry, smirking lips devoured his own, pressing and demanding compliance. They didn't need to demand much, though, since the half-formed words allowed for easy access.

Eventually Stan pulled back for a breath, with that smirk of his still in place.

"You needed to lighten up. The bitchiness, man, it's been driving me nuts."

For once, Kyle ignored the frizzing effect the rain held on his hair and just enjoyed the feel of callused hands running through the tangled strands. He ignored the mud clinging to Stan's clothes, just felt the other's body pressing and sliding against his own, felt the warmth and the friction and didn't pay the downpour any mind.

Maybe the rain wasn't so bad after all.


	9. Motivation

**Motivation**

All throughout elementary school, it was a well-known fact that Kyle Broflovski was highly intelligent and always top in the class. Even though he played some sports and video games like the rest of his friends, he kept his nose to the books, and it payed off. He strove for his high grades, and every A+ supplied him with a sense of well-deserved satisfaction. He was proud of his achievements; there was no reason not to be.

High school started out much the same. After all, he was still competing - yes, it was always a competition for him - with the same group of kids he'd been classmates with since kindergarten. Sure, the material was a bit more challenging, but not much changed other than that.

He expected a continuation of this trend in college. After all, it had been all he'd known.

Oh, how wrong he'd been.

He no longer saw the faces of every other student in his year, no longer knew what he was up against, no longer had a sense of class rank, and it was only a matter of time until he freaked out. Cramming, cramming, always studying and cramming, but it was never enough to assure him that he was the best.

Eventually, he lost the energy to cram every weekend.

Eventually, he stopped caring about rank. The competition was no fun anymore, not when he couldn't guess all the cards his opponents held.

Soon he fell into the same rut that seemed to plague most of campus. The lazy bug had bitten him and spread its disease through every vein. As long as he got his assignments in on time and completed to a decent extent, everything was fine. Didn't mean that he wouldn't push those assignments to the last minute. There had been numerous occasions where he'd skipped a morning class or two in order to finish an essay or other assignment for a class later that very afternoon. But he somehow always managed to pull something out of his ass when down at the wire.

Speaking of asses...

It was late Sunday afternoon. Kyle had an essay due Monday morning, but he just did _not _feel like doing it at the moment. He had the whole thing planned out in his head; what would waiting a few more hours to put it to paper hurt? So he surfed the internet, checked his email a hundred times only to delete spam cluttering his inbox every ten minutes, and was ultimately bored out of his skull. So of course, his mind wandered. Technically, his _eyes _wandered, following a certain someone's jean-clad rear around the apartment they shared.

"I'm bored," he announced with a yawn, setting his laptop aside on the already cluttered coffee table in front of him.

"So?" Stan raised an eyebrow. He was rifling around in the kitchen, probably looking for a snack. "I'm hungry, and I'm doing something about it. 'Sides, shouldn't you be writing your essay?"

"If you're hungry, you're looking in the wrong place."

"Oh, very subtle. Dude, seriously, write your goddamned essay."

Kyle sighed. Not just any sigh, oh no; it was his exasperated, over the top _'why must you persecute me?' _sigh, reserved specially for moments of pure melodrama. "But I don't _want _to. I'll do it later."

Stan just eyed him. "Dude. Just do it. Do you have any idea how fucking annoying it is to listen to you freaking out that you don't have enough time at four in the morning?"

"Aw, come on, dude," Kyle pleaded, watching Stan disappear momentarily behind the refrigerator door. "I need some... inspiration." Cheesy, but it was worth a shot.

The faint pop and hiss of an opened soda can was his only response for several seconds, followed by several more seconds in which Stan downed at least half the can. "That's a funny word for it."

"_Stan!_ I'm dying here!"

"All right Kyle, you know what?" He paused to finish his drink, before crushing the aluminum in his fist and tossing it into the recycling bin. "You write your paper first, _then _we'll do whatever you want. Okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, just turned down the hall and headed into the bathroom. Within minutes, Kyle heard the hiss of the shower starting.

Kyle didn't know how long it took to spit out his essay, and he certainly didn't bother to proofread it, but he was damn sure that it was the fastest he'd ever written a paper; the showerhead hadn't even shut off by the time he was dashing down the hall after Stan.


	10. A Case Study of Occam's Razor

**A Case Study of Occam's Razor**

People like to consider themselves rational beings. And for the most part, the human species is rational to the extent that it has developed languages, cultures, the arts and the sciences, philosophy and various other structures that would indicate that mankind is capable of higher reasoning. It is also worth noting that population is constantly on the rise, though this might simply be the product of an inability for people to restrain themselves from reproducing more quickly than the rest of the population can manage to kill itself off in new and interesting ways,

Still, even with their ability for rationality, humans are gifted in the fine art of self-deception and what can only be presumed to be willful irrationality.

Take, for instance, Stan Marsh: an average teenager with the normally expected amount of hormones for a boy his age. It is all too evident to his peers (and seemingly everyone aside from himself) that he has a rather large crush on his best friend of over a decade. Kyle notices the signs of attraction and shares the sentiment, so he adheres to the schema instilled in him by his surrounding culture and flirts back, to make his feelings clear to Stan without overtly stating the fact. This is high school, after all; being forthright with one's feelings and skipping this step of social awkwardness is unheard of.

But Stan, the presumed rational being, ultimately fails to recognize the presented social cues. As of this point he might be considered, in layman's terms, to be a "complete and utter moron." Yet Kyle is undaunted; he continues to leave hint after hint, but all to no avail.

Accidentally-on-purpose touching is attributed to their constant closeness over the years.

Cuddling and groping at Friday night parties is nothing more than the result of too much alcohol.

Verbal affections are, naturally, just another way of teasing Stan.

A drastic alteration of wardrobe reminiscent of the days of the metrosexual fad are a curious but otherwise non-noteworthy change.

It gradually becomes clear to Kyle that Stan suffers from an acute inability to parse assumptions as to the nature of Kyle's recent behavior, and he is therefore presented with two options: either continue to drop hint after hint ad nauseam, or take a more direct route.

Kyle approaches Stan and asks a single question, "Are you familiar with Occam's Razor?" When Stan indicates that he has no idea what his friend is talking about, Kyle takes the opportunity to give Stan a brief lecture, beginning with a rather frustrated but nevertheless passionate kiss.


	11. Up A Tree

**Up A Tree **

Stan was beginning to severely regret some of his decisions. Specifically, the ones that had landed him in his current predicament.

He and Kyle had been fighting again. It was over something stupid as usual. At least, Stan thought it was stupid. So what if he'd fucked up the laundry again? It's not like he'd _meant_ to! He couldn't really be expected to remember not to mix loads every time. Besides, that was a feminine job, and he was not feminine, so by that logic, he shouldn't have been doing the laundry in the first place.

But then Kyle went and got all pissed off at him after that. What the hell crawled up his ass? It wasn't like he said that _Kyle_ was girly, he was just saying that _he_ wasn't. But Kyle apparently did not see it that way and just would not shut the hell up, so that led to Bad Decision Number One: Stan said he was sick of fighting over something so ridiculous, got up, and walked away.

Not telling Kyle where he was going accounted for Bad Decision Number Two. Or maybe that was just a subset of the first one.

He'd walked around town for a while after that, just trying to dissipate his foul mood. He hadn't so much walked his frustration out as he did lose the energy to maintain his anger (maybe not eating breakfast should have been called Bad Decision Number One...), so he just plopped himself down by Stark's Pond, which had been where he'd ended up. But the ground was cold and kind of soggy, so he would have had to go home soon after to change his clothes. He wasn't ready to deal with Kyle again so soon, so he considered his alternatives. There were no benches, so it was either sitting on the ground, or...

Bad Decision Number Three (Four?): climbing a tree. Or, to be more accurate, climbing really fucking high into a tree and not thinking to stop when he kept accidentally snapping the branches he'd climbed up on.

Yep. Those were some pretty damn stupid decisions. Suddenly the argument with Kyle didn't seem quite so stupid anymore in comparison...

Damn, it was really cold up there. And he was still hungry. And tired. And he was starting to get pretty damn pissed off – at himself, at the tree, at the goddamned washing machine, but surprisingly not at Kyle. He _should_ have been mad at Kyle. Shouldn't he? Kyle was mad at him. But it didn't really make all that much sense to be pissed at him for that. Getting mad in retaliation and walking out was what got him into trouble in the first place, after all.

But soon he wasn't so pissed off anymore. No, that had given way to worry, and eventually traces of panic. Was Kyle even looking for him; had he been gone long enough for him to worry? Or did Kyle figure he'd just come home when he was ready? Probably the latter...

Shit.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting up there clinging to the trunk of the tree just to make sure he didn't lose his balance and fall off. How the hell was he supposed to get down from there? He'd have to get down eventually... but he didn't want to break any bones in the process. What if he broke his spine, or his neck? Fuck, fuck!

Oh, why the hell did he have to fuck up the laundry?! If only he could get down without killing himself, he'd make damn sure to learn how to do laundry right, even if it was a girly chore! At least then Kyle wouldn't get mad at him and he wouldn't end up getting stuck up a fucking tree!

"Stan, what the hell are you doing up there?"

His surprise almost knocked him from his perch. Kyle was there? Kyle! Oh thank god.

...But he had no fucking clue how to explain himself. Oh man. Awkward.

"Umm... I'm. Uh." _Think Stan, think!_ "I'm just..." But he couldn't think of anything convincing. "Errr." Real eloquent there.

"You went and got yourself stuck up there, didn't you?" Stan wasn't sure he could make out Kyle rolling his eyes from his height, but he could quite clearly see Kyle pinching the bridge of his nose.

"...Um. Yeah."

He sighed – _loudly_, probably to make sure Stan could hear it. "I'm gonna go find a ladder. Don't fall and die before I get back."

Before Kyle could leave, Stan called out after him. "Kyle? Are you still mad at me?"

He considered this. "No. But I am annoyed that you ran off the way you did."

"Oh." Kyle turned to leave, but Stan called him again. "Uhm... hey, Kyle?"

"_What_, Stan?"

"I'm sorry about fucking up the laundry."

"I know you are. Just... don't do this again, okay?"

"Okay." He wasn't sure if Kyle meant the laundry thing or the tree thing, but he had no intention of revisiting either any time soon.


	12. Bleach

A/N: Okay, after seeing BASEketball, I kind of felt that this needed to be done, because Trey with blond hair just freaks me the hell out.

* * *

**Bleach**

"Dude, come out, it can't be _that _bad."

Kyle's urging earned nothing more than a groan from the confines of Stan's closet, where the distressed boy had locked himself. "Come on! You can't stay in there forever."

"But... but... It's really bad."

"And it's going to stay that way until you get your ass out here so we can try to fix it. Now come _on_, Stan!" He was seriously starting to get irritated. He wasn't sure exactly how long he's been waiting for Stan to open the damn door, but it had been more than long enough as far as he was concerned.

"But Kyle...!"

"If you don't come out here right now, I'm breaking the door down and coming in there after you, I swear to god."

"What?! No!" There was shuffling, and grunting, and finally a long defeated sigh. "Fine. But you can't laugh."

Kyle just crossed his arms and quirked a brow. Of course, Stan couldn't actually see this, but Kyle's lack of verbal response was response enough.

"I'm fucking serious, Kyle! No laughing." God, Stan's voice was so _annoying _when it got all shrill like that.

"Dude, I'm not promising anything. Just get out here so I can see the damage."

And so Stan did finally, albeit grudgingly, make his way out - but not without his trusty toboggan pulled far below his hairline to try to cover up the mess beneath as much as possible. Kyle reached out to remove the hat, but Stan shrunk back in panic-stricken reflex. Upon realizing that there was no point in further delaying the inevitable, he sighed again, grumbled something unintelligible, and ripped the hat from his head.

Kyle's eyes couldn't help but widen at the sight underneath. Stan hadn't told him over the phone exactly what it was that Wendy had done to him, but now he stood before it and... had no fucking clue how to react. "...Dude. What the hell."

Apparently that was not what Stan had wanted to hear, and he let out an agonized groan. "What am I supposed to do?! I had no idea it was gonna be this bad!"

"Wait, wait... so you knew going in that she was gonna bleach it?"

"Well, uh, no... not exactly. It was... um. A spur of the moment thing." Kyle was not buying that for one second and gave Stan a _look _that expressed as much. "Okay, fine! She's been thinking about going blonde, but wanted to know how it would look first... you know, on someone with naturally dark hair."

"What, so you offered to be her guinea pig?"

"No!" Stan's panicked look slowly fell into a sheepish frown. "Not offered. More like I got dragged along."

"Dude, that's fucking weak."

Still, Kyle couldn't resist reaching out to touch Stan's bleached hair. Strands that had once seemed so familiar, still _felt _familiar to curious fingers, now reflected the sunlight instead of consuming it. It was... unnerving, to say the least.

Though the motion seemed to calm Stan as he melted into Kyle's touch, he still made his displeasure known with a whine. "I don't like it, Kyle."

"It looks weird."

Stan just made a face at that. "I know."

"Can't you just dye it back to black?" Even as he asked, Kyle figured the answer would be no. If that were the case, why wouldn't Wendy just dye it back immediately?

"Can I?" Clearly Stan hadn't put much thought into this. But then, if he'd put thought into it, he wouldn't have blond hair at the moment.

So Kyle dragged Stan to his house to ask his mom. Mrs. Broflovski was less than pleased when she saw the state of Stan's hair - going so far as to let loose one of her infamous shrieks of "Whatwhat_what?_" - but she agreed to help so long as neither of the boys ever let their friends anywhere near their hair again. One conditioner treatment and dye process later, and no difference could be told by looking at it.

But Kyle could _feel _the difference when running his fingers through the conditioned strands, which he enjoyed thoroughly later on.

Stan, of course, heeded Mrs. Broflovski's warning about letting other kids near his hair. But Kyle was the exception to this rule. He always was.


	13. Constant

**Constant **

There were many faces that Kyle put forth, and most of them were circumstantial.

When everything was going all right, he was the cool, calm, collected one. When Cartman was putting in minimal effort to annoy him, he was the pissed off, violent one, prone to taking out his frustration in bruising ways - whether that be to Cartman's overweight body or to his own ego, or for better or worse, to Stan's backside, though he never really minded.

When Stan was upset, Kyle was the calming one, coming up with ideas for making everything better. When Stan was about to do something stupid that he would likely regret later, Kyle was the voice of reason, and often the one inevitably trying not to say told-you-so.

When Stan was happy, Kyle was happy; and when Kyle was happy, so was Stan. Those were the best circumstances.

Circumstances made it easy to predict how Kyle would react. It was comforting, almost reassuring, to know what to expect from him. He was the steady one, reliable in every sense, while Stan was the unpredictable one, changing moods and thoughts on a whim. Without the mountains to shape its patterns, the wind would be aimless, spinning in every direction without recourse, and without Kyle to ground him, Stan would feel just as lost.

But sometimes, circumstances made it nearly impossible to know what to expect from Kyle.

Like when he was sick. Stan hated it when Kyle was sick. He would be laughing and smiling one moment, but then something inexplicable would flicker in his weary, turbulent eyes and he'd scowl at something unseen. No reason, no explanation. And it scared the hell out of Stan.

He'd tried to ask Kyle about it before, but it always made him so angry. Something, _anything _would have been enough, but not the silence. He couldn't handle that.

He was doing it again - that laughter, that look, that sudden frown. Every time he saw that look, Stan could feel his stomach drop like a lead weight. Because eventually he's start asking again, he couldn't help it, and Kyle would get angry, and he'd ask Stan to leave. Just like always.

But Stan was tired, so tired of following that same pattern every time; it drained him emotionally and physically, and he just couldn't deal with it anymore.

"Guess it's time for me to go, huh?" He tried to laugh, but it sounded forced, which it was. "See you later then..."

He stood from where he had been sitting at the edge of Kyle's bed. Before he reached the door, Kyle called after him. "Stan?"

"Kyle... you know what always happens. You're just gonna tell me to go anyway." He tried to smile, he really did, but he couldn't manage more than the slightest quirk of the lips.

Kyle stared at him, long and hard. "That..." He licked his dried lips, looked away. Couldn't look at Stan. "Doesn't mean I want you to leave."

"Then why do you always ask me to?"

He still wouldn't meet Stan's gaze. Seconds ticked by, each one pounding away at Stan's thinning emotional reserve. _Just say something. Anything... Please._

"I hate being sick." He must have seen the confusion in Stan's face, so Kyle rushed on, "I know, I know, everyone hates being sick, but dude, I'm _always _getting sick. It happens too fucking often, and..." He trailed off, but finally, _finally _he looked up to meet Stan's eyes, and there was just so much _fear _there that Stan could immediately sense a terror grasping at the edge of his own senses.

"Sometimes I gotta wonder, is it coming? Am I dying?" Of all times to smile, Kyle did, just then. "I don't wanna die, Stan."

"You're not-"

"_Don't_." His voice was sharp and his words cold, his eyes equally so. "Don't say I'm not. Because you don't know."

"Neither do you."

"I don't..." Kyle trailed off mid-sentence, shaking his head and grunting. "It's not fair to you, dammit."

Oh. _Oh_.

"Kyle, I'm not going anywhere, okay?" Stan retraced his steps and reclaimed the spot where he'd been sitting moments ago; he took hold of one of Kyle's fisted hands. "You never forced me to stay here, I'm here because I want to be. And whenever... you know. Don't even think about that." _If you die, it doesn't mean you failed me; you never could_. He wanted to say that, but couldn't form the words, so he just clung all the more tightly to Kyle's hand, hoping that it would convey what he meant.

Kyle just smiled. "Don't get all mushy on me, dude." Yeah, he knew.

Circumstances change and seasons come and go, but one thing that was always a constant was Stan's utter devotion to Kyle, and seeing that small smile made everything worth it.


	14. Deriving Functions

**Deriving Functions **

Kyle hated Sunday nights. They should have been pleasant evenings; he always made sure to finish his class assignments by Saturday at the latest so that he would have the rest of the weekend to relax.

But unfortunately for him, his dumbass boyfriend just _had _to put off his homework until the last possible minute, including the stuff that he had absolutely no grasp of whatsoever. Kyle had tried again and again to get Stan to at least _attempt _to do it earlier, but he always spent all that earlier time freaking out about how he didn't understand it at all before running off on a beer run and drowning himself in video games for hours. And then, lo and behold, Sunday night would sneak up and Stan would remember that he needed to pass this course and start begging Kyle for help.

Which, of course, he did, because he did not want to deal with Stan's bitching and moaning about how he was gonna flunk out of college and become a crack-addicted hobo living in the gutter.

"Dude, why the fuck couldn't you have taken a different math course if this is so hard for you?"

"Because all of the Analysis classes were full by the time I registered!"

"That's because you never wake up on time for web registration."

Kyle sighed. He'd tried to get Stan to withdraw from his Calculus class, but he was being incredibly pigheaded about it. Someone was definitely getting his ass kicked out of bed on time for next term's registration... and probably taking Analysis when he ended up failing Calculus, because at this rate, Kyle seriously could not see Stan passing.

And now Stan was making those damn puppy eyes at him, so grudgingly Kyle decided it would be best to just get this over with as quickly as possible before he started whining. Well, he'd undoubtedly be whining regardless... God damn this was annoying. "So, what is it you don't get this time?"

Stan was shuffling through his messy notes, looking for that week's assignment. "Umm... the chain rule."

And already Kyle wanted to kill himself.

"Are you sure your problem is with the chain rule and not, you know, finding the derivative?"

"Both, probably," Stan admitted with a grimace.

Stan was always having issues with derivatives, and Kyle just did not feel like dealing with that head-on at the moment, so he decided to focus on the other issue at hand.

"Okay, well, what's the problem?"

Looking a bit flustered, Stan opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no intelligible words came out. Finally he just grunted and shoved a crumpled piece of looseleaf into Kyle's hands. "Here."

He skimmed over the messy scrawls, and before he could repress a groan, out it came. "Staaan... you need to take the derivative of the inside function! You can't just take it out and leave it there!"

Stan's immediate response was some gargled, almost inhuman noise. "I can't help it! I can never remember that part!"

"So you at least _know _you're supposed to take the derivative; you just can't remember to do it?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Kyle actually laughed at that. "Dude, then it's not that big a problem. You just need a way to..." he smirked, already coming up with ideas, "_remember _what you need to do."

And Kyle _did _make sure that Stan would remember. In fact, their neighbors just might remember too, given how loudly Kyle screamed for Stan to "derive" his "function."

Stan's TA probably never would understand why one of his students turned beet red every time he mentioned deriving a function.


	15. Possessive

**Possessive **

Ever since the first time that Kyle had faced the misfortune of witnessing an extremely inebriated Stan, he'd been of the opinion that Stan and alcohol simply do not mix well.

It wasn't that Stan couldn't form coherent sentences; he could in fact go on and on without noticeable errors in syntax or semantics. And it wasn't that he was obnoxiously loud, as some drunk people tend to be. No, the irritating thing about a drunk Stan was that almost everything coming out of his mouth was complete and utter _bullshit_.

Now, if Kyle was drunk too, he didn't mind so much. But if he was sober, Moses help him, he just wanted to punch the guy in the face to make him shut up. Needless to say, he made it a point to get more than tipsy every time Stan decided that it would be a good idea to drink.

But unfortunately, sometimes Kyle lost track of Stan, and by the time he'd find out where he was, most of the alcohol would already be about as far gone as Stan was. And given Stan's rather rumpled state on the floor of a mutual friend's apartment, Kyle could easily assume just how far that was.

"God dammit, Stan."

"Mm?" Stan blinked bleary eyes open and yawned. When he saw who was glaring down at him, he smiled brightly. "Kyle! Man, I was just wondering where you were. No party is ever complete without you there, dude."

"Yeah, well, this party's over for you. Come on, we're going home."

"Aww!" But other than an overly dramatic pout, Stan put up little resistance to leaving. Sometimes he could walk all right on his own, other times he couldn't; this was one of those other times, and Kyle was silently grateful that their apartment building was only a few blocks from the one they were leaving.

"Hey Kyle, y'know what?"

Oh god. "What, Stan?" He sincerely hoped that he wasn't about to let loose one of his long bullshitting yarns. Between that and carrying most of Stan's weight, Kyle wasn't sure he could put up with it at the moment.

"There were these huge assholes at the party. They were saying a lot of shit that was pissing me off, right? So you know what I did?" He glanced aside and grinned at his best friend, who currently looked less than pleased. "I kicked their asses! It was pretty sweet, dude. Too bad you missed it."

"You don't say."

"Hell yeah! They kept coming at me, probably thought they were so tough, but I showed them. Didn't even break a sweat."

Kyle sighed and came to a stop. He pulled Stan aside and pushed him against the brick wall of the convenience store they'd stopped next to. "Dude, stop it."

"Kyle?" There was only confusion in those blue eyes staring back at him.

"Do you even realize how ridiculous you sound? Going on and on about how you beat some random guys up! I bet you didn't, I bet the booze is just making you think you did!"

"Dude, nuh-uh!"

"Shut up, Stan!" God, why did he have to do this all the time? Couldn't he figure out how much it pissed him off? Kyle wanted to scream at him, but it wouldn't do him any good, he was too fucking drunk.

"But, but Kyle..." He actually seemed hurt, genuinely _hurt _by Kyle's anger, and it made Kyle feel a twinge of guilt for snapping at him. "But they really were being assholes... I couldn't just let them say shit like that."

What the hell was Stan talking about? "Shit like what?"

"Saying they were so awesome and could fuck anyone they wanted. Bunch of arrogant pricks..."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You got yourself all worked up over _that?_ Dude, just ignore it, people blow hot air like that all the time. It makes them feel better about themselves or something. It doesn't really matter." He punched Stan in the shoulder, then grabbed hold of him there and moved to start walking again.

But Stan resisted and pulled back, pulled Kyle back and pushed him into the wall. "It _does _matter! They're... they're fuckin' assholes! They shouldn't get away with saying that sorta thing!"

"Why the hell does it bother you so much?"

"'Cause they _can't_." Before Kyle could ask him to elaborate on what he meant by that, Stan growled low in his throat and pressed in close. The rough texture of the wall scratched at Kyle's back through his shirt and jacket as Stan pinned him there, warm hands grasping at his neck and shoulders and needy lips straining against his own. The sudden urgency of Stan's actions caught him off-guard and left him breathless.

They can't...? _Oh_.

It was in that moment that Kyle decided that a drunken Stan was not always necessarily irritating. Sometimes, he could prove himself to be endearingly possessive.


	16. Pranks

**Pranks **

Stan never could remember what it was exactly that caused most of his and Kyle's pissing contests. What he did remember was that Kyle always blamed him, and since he couldn't remember, he could only assume that either Kyle was right or Kyle was taking advantage of his inability to remember the start of it. And, since Stan was not one to back down from a challenge, he would naturally go with the latter assumption, because what fun would it be to back down so easily? Besides, that would make him a pussy, and Stan Marsh was no pussy.

So maybe he'd relabeled everything in Kyle's music library. But it was worth it just to see the look of unadulterated horror on his face when what should have been his favorite album by The Cure turned out to be some random pop starlet's album. After all, the simple fact that Kyle had such a thing on his computer more or less begged for such a prank to be pulled.

But when Kyle retaliated by painting Sparky bubblegum pink, well, that was just crossing the line. What did poor Sparky ever do to deserve such brutal humiliation? Never mind that the crazy dog seemed pleased as punch with his new coloring.

Cartman and Kenny were useful as ever. Cartman, of course, had a several page long list of "suggestions" for Stan's pranks, all of which were far too cruel for him to even consider pulling on his best friend, even if he was being a total asshole. Kenny on the other hand told Stan to stop being such a bitch and to go kiss and make up, because this cutesy shit was killing him. Stan didn't believe Kenny, but when the kid kicked the bucket during one of Kyle's stunts (who knew toads could explode like that?), he was about as surprised as he could be for seeing his friend die for the umpteenth time.

Things eventually devolved to a point bordering on ridiculous, if they hadn't already crossed that line at some earlier point. Stan's latest and admittedly stupidest prank involved dropping a flaming bag of Sparky's crap on the Broflovski doorstep - admitted mostly because he was terrified that Sheila Broflovski would eviscerate him if she ever found out about it.

Trying not to snicker, he speed-dialed Kyle on his cell. "Hey Kyle, I left you a present outside!" he stated cheerfully and flipped his phone off without waiting for a response. Oh man, this was gonna be _awesome_.

When Kyle opened the front door and glanced down at Stan's fiery "gift," Stan could barely contain his glee as he watched from his hiding spot across the street. He was gonna stomp the fire out and get dog shit all over his shoes, and it would be funny as hell. Stan couldn't help congratulating himself on such a perfect execution; it might have not been a very original prank, but it was tried and true, transcending the years of prankdom, if that was even a word.

But Kyle didn't seem to think it was all that impressive, given his reaction to the prank. As if he'd expected something better from Stan. "That's _it?_ Weak, Stan. Super weak."

And with that, he unzipped his fly and put the small fire out in a very crude but effective way.

"Aw, aww! No fair!"

"Dude, seriously, what the hell?" Kyle shook his head disapprovingly, but couldn't conceal his smirk. "Couldn't you get at least a _little _more creative than that?"

"Like what?" Stan didn't mean to whine, but that definitely sounded like a whine. God dammit.

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe hiding kinky sex toys around my house to freak my parents out and get me in trouble. Something better than _that_," he glanced down at the sopping paper bag, "which you had better clean up, dude."

"But... you pissed on it!"

"Observant, aren't we?"

"Aww, gross." He _really _didn't want to clean that up. Seriously, that was just nasty. "Ugh..."

Kyle snickered at Stan's dilemma. "If you clean it up, I'll forgive you for being such a bitch and we can call this stupid prank war off." Just in case Stan needed more convincing, he added, "And I won't tell my mom you dropped flaming dog shit on the step."

There was no arguing with _that_, so Stan grumbled something along the lines of not being a bitch and grabbed the hose from around back, making short work of cleaning the mess.

"Dude, when I said clean it up, I didn't mean hosing it onto my neighbor's property."

"Eh, whatever." Just then, something Kyle had said registered in his mind. "What was that about weird kinky shit before?"

"Oh. Um, nothing," Kyle laughed nervously, refusing to meet Stan's eyes, but that just confirmed his suspicions.

"Dude... you were gonna pull that on me, weren't you? You asshole!"

His annoyance was not helped at all by Kyle's increased laughter. "All the more reason to be glad this is over now, hmm?" He clapped an arm around Stan's shoulders and raised a eyebrow, though it turned out more goofy than suggestive. "But hey, if you're so disappointed, I could always show you the stuff I got."

Stan tried to give his best unimpressed look, but then Kyle just had to _waggle _that stupid eyebrow and he couldn't help but laugh and shake his head. "Yeah yeah, sure." As he turned to follow Kyle inside, he smirked and smacked the other's ass. "But just remember, I'm _not _the bitch here."

* * *

A/N: I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who's taken the time to read and review this thing so far, I really appreciate it. :) Over 50 reviews and 3500 hits, sweet!  



	17. Driving Beat

**Driving Beat**

There were a few secret passions that Stan harbored. Certain books and movie genres, even some food products - all which only one person knew about him. And he was comfortable with that. He didn't mind if Kyle knew how much he liked indie films or soy products, though he'd probably have conniptions if someone like Cartman ever found out. The last thing he needed was the fatass trying to off him for being a closeted hippie.

Even so, there was one thing that Stan tried to avoid discussing, and that was his musical preferences. It wasn't so much about what he did like to listen to, as that covered a wide range. Classical, jazz, blues, even Broadway showtunes, it was all okay by him. He could even stand a little country and pop every now and then. But what he _really _enjoyed was rock. Any rock. Classic, techno, punk, hard or soft, gothic, indie, Britpop, they all worked for him, though he tended to lean towards metal and progressive, with a good bit of alternative and post-grunge.

No, the problem was definitely not the types of music he liked. It was the kind he _didn't _like that kept him reserved on the subject. The kind that Kyle happened to like.

Oh sure, they had plenty of overlap in tastes. After all, Kyle had a definite soft spot for post-punk and gothic rock, if his adoration of The Cure was any indication. But his predominantly favored genres drove Stan absolutely crazy. Well, in all honesty it was mostly the hip-hop and rap that irritated him; the R&B was sometimes tolerable.

Stan wasn't quite sure why hip-hop bothered him so much. He figured that part of the reason was that his classmates _expected _him to like that sort of music, because all the stars on his high school's sports teams supposedly listened to that sort of thing. All but him, apparently.

But Kyle, he loved the stuff for some inexplicable reason. Between classes, the iPod earbuds perpetually attached to his head were always blasting out some heavy bass beat to some unheard rapped lyrics. When they drove anywhere in Kyle's car, half the town probably shook on account of his stereo system's subwoofers, or so Stan figured from how much the noise made his brain throb against his skull. He'd tried to flip the dials before in an attempt to escape the hellish sounds that passed for music, but Kyle only smacked his hand away and grinned, then quipped something he'd probably heard on TV about the driver picking the music and shotgun shutting his cakehole.

When Stan finally figured out what it was about hip-hop that drove him nuts, he could have smacked himself in the head. It had percussion, _lots _of percussion, and the occasional synthesizer, but that was generally the sum of instrumentation.

The fun thing about the music that Stan liked was the interaction of different instruments and vocals to produce something bigger and better than the individual parts. Hip-hop was all about one driving, overwhelming beat.

And later, as Stan watched Kyle dancing around his room to that single beat with that goofball grin of his, he realized that the thing he disliked was the same thing which Kyle liked so much about it. It was the only thing he could dance to.

So Stan decided to create his own idea of fun with that driving beat; grinding bodies could be instruments, and voices rising and falling and straining for breath could be vocals enough. And that interaction could definitely result in something more enjoyable than the sum of parts, with that thumping bass keeping beat in the background all the while.


	18. Burnt

**Burnt **

Stan had spent nearly all eighteen years of his life in the frozen hell otherwise known as South Park, so when Kyle had invited him to come along with his family on vacation, he'd jumped at the opportunity.

Since it was the Broflovskis' last vacation together before their oldest son left for college, they'd wanted to do something special. They had originally wanted to go to Europe, but heaven forbid they travel overseas and bring their children closer to the war (one which Sheila vehemently insisted she had nothing to do with, lest anyone suspect her of being a warmonger), so that brought their choices down to either Canada, Alaska, Mexico, or South America. The former two were ruled out on account of Ike's refusal to go anywhere near his birthland again, and South America was ruled out due to Sheila being convinced that it was far too dangerous there for some reason or other.

So Mexico it was. By some strange strain of luck, probably due to the fact that they had sons rather than daughters, Kyle's parents seemed completely oblivious to how wild Cancun could be. That was the only logical explanation that either of them could come up with for their ending up in that tourist trap of a location.

But Stan wasn't complaining. He was just happy to have escaped the perpetual snow of his hometown for a couple months, and he was going to take full advantage of the sun's warmth for as long as he could. As soon as Stan and Kyle had settled into their hotel room, they'd checked in with Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski down the hall to tell them that they were going to the pool. Kyle's parents had insisted that they bring Ike and his friend who he'd brought along, but luckily they were content to stay in their room channel surfing for the time being.

Unfortunately, having lived in a mountain town for his whole life, Stan had severely underestimated the potential strength of the sun. Sure, he and Kyle had both covered themselves in sunscreen, but when you fall asleep in a lounge chair with the Caribbean sun beating down on your back for several hours... well, to not end up burnt would be a miracle. Even Kyle's Jewish skin hadn't prevented him from getting burnt, though he was significantly less pink than Stan - though that might have had more to do with him having a tendency to roll over in his sleep, so his burn was more evenly distributed. Stan's front was slightly burnt, but his back had become a peeling source of pain.

When Sheila and Gerald had found out, they'd lectured the boys for at least half an hour on the dangers of falling asleep in the sun and sun poisoning, which Stan may very well have gotten himself. As a result, the two were grounded - as much as a couple of eighteen-year-olds could be grounded while on vacation with minimal supervision - and told to stay inside the hotel for the rest of the week.

Neither of them had any intention of staying cooped up for that long, not with adventures just waiting to happen beyond the hotel walls. But as soon as Stan started puking and screaming every time he accidentally rolled onto his back, they realized that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to stay put for a while.

Later that day, Kyle disappeared for a while. Stan would have probably been more irritated at his best friend for abandoning him if he wasn't nearly delirious from pain. But when Kyle returned with the purchases he'd made, Stan immediately forgave him for leaving.

After all, what says love better than noxema and a bottle of tequila?


	19. Changing Plans

**Changing Plans **

Stan was not a happy camper. At least, that was what Wendy had declared, and numerous times at that, which was starting to drive the poor boy somewhat crazy.

He loved the girl, really - though not in _that _way, not since elementary school - but he just didn't understand the way her brain worked sometimes. How was his sexual orientation supposed to magically transform him into some stylish shopping god? He was still _Stan_, dammit. He played football and video games, he didn't get manicures (the thought alone made him visibly cringe) and help girls go clothes shopping.

And yet, there he was in the mall... and no, he was _not _a happy camper.

"Aw, come on, Stan!"

"Wendy, _no_," he answered, trying not to give into his habit of pinching the bridge of his nose out of annoyance.

He'd been dragged around for the better part of the afternoon from store to store, pestered for his input on clothes and shoes and jewelry and God only knows what else because _he _certainly couldn't keep track of it all. All the response he could even manage to give was 'that's nice' or 'meh' anyway, so he couldn't see how he was supposed to be particularly useful. The only thing he could manage was to carry Wendy's purchases, and if it would have made her stop asking him questions that were practically Greek to him, he would have carried three times as much. But the one thing he would _not _have done was what she was asking of him now.

It was one thing to drag a man out shopping; it was a completely different ballpark to actually try to get him to try on clothes - and not just any clothes, but _prissy _clothes. Especially if that man was Stan Marsh, the guy who lived in jeans and t-shirts and sports jackets and was perfectly satisfied with his limited wardrobe, thank you very much.

Where was Kyle when he needed him? _He _wouldn't have been trying to get Stan into clothes he knew he didn't like. Kyle liked him just the way he was.

"We're not leaving until you at least try _something _on."

Something? Stan was all right with _something_, just as long as that _something _wasn't anything that even remotely reminded him of the embarrassment of that metro fad when they were kids. Kyle still made fun of him for that (and he had every right to), but was Stan going to willingly give him reinforcement for that? Oh _hell _no.

"Fine, Wendy, but then we're leaving, okay? The Broncos game starts in an hour, I don't wanna miss it."

Wendy smiled, so he took that for a yes - but instead of taking any of the clothes that she was holding out to him, he grabbed a nondescript t-shirt off of the returns rack and ran off into the fitting area. "_Stan!_ Ugh..."

Snickering to himself for his quick thinking, Stan ducked into the closest changing stall without even thinking to check if anyone was in there first. An instant later, he wasn't sure if that was an amazingly _good _or horribly _bad _thing.

Well, at least that answered the question of where Kyle was.

"Stan, what the hell are you _doing _here?!" He looked absolutely panic-stricken, and Stan couldn't blame him. He was, after all, surrounded by the types of clothing he'd just managed to avoid trying on. What the fuck?

"I could ask you the same thing." Stan poked at one of the button-down shirts on the hook. He glanced at Kyle with an incredulous look, as if to ask _Is this yours?, _to which he only grimaced and nodded. "Dude, I thought you said you were spending the day with your mom?"

"I am," he groaned, shoving his face into one hand.

"...Oh. Shit, that sucks. What the hell is up with girls and prissy clothes?" Kyle gave him a weird look, so he explained simply, "Wendy's outside."

"Ah." Kyle plucked the t-shirt from Stan's hands and smirked. "Prissy, huh?"

"She tried, man! But I beat her at her own game. So after I try that on, I"m free!" Oh yeah, he really was just _that _awesome.

Kyle laughed and shook his head, probably not surprised. "Good for you. I'll be lucky if my mom lets me go before the mall closes."

"What? But... the game, dude! The game!" They always watched the Broncos games together. _Always_.

"You think she cares?"

That was a good point. This _was _Sheila Broflovski they were speaking of, and when that woman decided something, trying to deter her from her course that was like trying to change the weather; it simply wasn't done.

"Fucking hell..." Suddenly, getting out of there wasn't his top priority anymore. What the hell was the point when he wouldn't even be able to enjoy the game without Kyle there to cheer, jeer, and mock with?

He looked from the t-shirt still in Kyle's hands, to the stall door, to the dated security camera perched in a high corner; Kyle followed his gaze and smirked. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Oh yeah. Time for a change of plans.

Stan grabbed the shirt, tossed it over the camera, and locked the door behind him, before turning back to Kyle with a devious grin. "Well, if you're gonna be stuck here 'til closing anyway..."

Needless to say, they both missed the game entirely. But they didn't really mind.


	20. Much Ado About Shakespeare

**Much Ado About Shakespeare **

"Dude, this is weak. Super weak."

Kyle merely nodded, too busy scanning the row upon rows of books stuffed onto shelves on the university's campus bookstore. Where was their class section number? He chewed his bottom lip in annoyance, hoping they hadn't sold out so soon.

"I mean, shit, you'd think we'd get out of summer reading assignments by now..."

Stan was still complaining and it was damn distracting, so Kyle held up a hand to cut the other off. "Bitch about it later, help me find books now." This earned him a snort, but Stan did cease his bitching for the moment, probably in favor of just getting what they needed and getting the fuck out of there.

It was their first term, and although both of them were more than pleased that their schedules overlapped for several college-required courses, they were somewhat horrified to find out that they had required reading for their English class. Well, Stan was horrified in general; Kyle was just upset that he he'd completely missed the notice until Stan started bitching about it.

Fortunately, it was only the end of June and they still had nearly two months to deal with their reading assignments, but Kyle didn't want to push it to the last minute. They'd be moving into the dorms mid-August, and figuring out where their classes were, and... he just didn't want to put it off. When he put things off, he got irritable, and when he got irritable, he reminded himself of his mother, and that was _never _a good thing. Especially when it resulted in Stan getting pissed at his mood and pointing out that sore spot of comparison, which always led to thrown punches and harsh words and bruised egos.

If wanting to avoid that sort of situation made him anal-retentive, well, he could accept that. Even if it had Stan smirking every time he described him as such. Bastard.

"Aren't you getting the books for your other classes?" Kyle interjected Stan's latest fit of snickers. They both had their Biology and Analysis textbooks, and Kyle had his Anthropology and Psychology books, but Stan hadn't gotten his Computer Science or Political Science texts yet. Kyle found it oddly amusing that they were taking classes in each other's major before either had taken a major-specific class yet, but maybe it would prove useful... at least when it came time to listen to each other complain about how their upper-level classes were killing them.

"Yeah, yeah." Stan shrugged the blatant shift in topic off. "Let's just take care of English first." He reached out and grabbed the first book listed under their section number. Immediately his face fell into a tortured expression. "Oh God... this is a poetry class?! Fuck!"

Kyle took the book from Stan's fingers and couldn't help laughing at the other's distress as he skimmed through the table of contents. Shakespeare, Dickinson, Frost, Arnold, Cummings, Keats, Eliot... "Aw, c'mon, Stan. It probably won't be _that _painful. Besides, professors never use entire anthologies for a class, so it's not like we'll have to deal with all of these."

"But Kyle!" Stan looked on the verge of panicking. "You know how bad I suck at poetry..."

Oh yes, Kyle knew. Certain high school memories of junior year English class and their teacher from hell who had a hard-on for Shakespeare were sure to haunt Stan for years to come. Not only did that teacher make each of them memorize and recite a sonnet in front of the class, but he also managed to convince the principal that it would be a great idea to have the class put on a production of _Much Ado About Nothing_. Stan had been absolutely certain that the teacher had something against him, because he'd had the misfortune of being casted as Benedick.

Still, Stan had survived that class and the performance; Kyle had made certain of that. He'd spent countless hours drilling Stan on his lines, and when memorization alone failed to work, he'd taken to practicing Beatrice's lines opposite him. When the afternoons grew late and Stan lost focus, he'd resorted to stuffing a wig (courtesy of Cartman's collection of things he'd rather not think too much about) on his head, just to hear his best friend's laughter. And when their practice sessions stretched late into the evening and they'd finally collapse on the floor of Stan's bedroom, he'd apologized for being so harsh and demanding before, even if it had been for Stan's benefit; and under the cover of darkness, he'd made it all up to him, in every way he could.

So yes, Stan may have sucked considerably at poetry and had a deep-seated loathing for Shakespeare, but fortunately he had Kyle to help him survive this sort of thing.

Still, that didn't stop him from groaning when he grabbed the second book for their class section only to find that it was a collection of three of Shakespeare's tragedies.

Kyle shook his head at Stan's distress and pulled the other book from Stan's hands. "I guess you're damn lucky I'm taking this class with you, huh?"

He managed to earn a small, relieved smile at that. "Yeah, guess I am."


	21. Fireflies

A continuation of _Twilight_...

**Fireflies **

The sun had just set, but night had not yet fully taken hold of the world. It was at that point that Stan decided it was time to call it quits for swimming. He wasn't afraid of catching cold, since it was the middle of the summer and still fairly warm out despite the lack of sunlight; he was just tired of swimming by himself. He'd tried to get Kyle to join him, but he'd opted to stay dry and watch the sky.

Well, if Kyle wasn't going to come to the water, Stan would just have to bring the water to him. It was with this thought and a devious smirk that he crept up on Kyle, who was still lost in whatever thoughts occupied his mind as he stared upwards into the fading light. He almost felt bad for what he was about to do; it was rare to see such a peaceful look on his best friend's face. But with the option of either standing there waiting to be noticed _staring _at Kyle, or to make his move while undetected, it wasn't much of a choice at all.

And so, he pounced.

Kyle let out some strangled noise halfway between a grunt and a shriek, before whatever it was died into a round of laughter as he tried to push the sopping wet body off of him. "Dammit Stan, you asshole!"

"Asshole? I'm wounded!" Just for that, Stan dug his blunted nails into Kyle's sides in an attempt to tickle the other, and immediately was met with a howl of annoyance amid the laughter when Kyle realized what he was doing.

"You're _gonna _be if you don't get off of me right now!" With that brief warning, Stan quickly found himself on his back, winded from the impact.

"Jesus," he wheezed. "Where's that kinda strength on the field? You've been holding back, man." But Kyle just laughed at this, which perplexed Stan. "What?"

"I haven't been holding back."

"Then what-" But he was cut off when Kyle whacked him in the face with his towel.

"I guess you just bring out the best in me." Even though it was getting darker by the moment and the towel was partially obstructing his field of vision, Stan saw a wry smirk briefly cross his friend's features. "Whatever that means."

Stan snorted, but otherwise didn't say anything; he just stayed as he was, sprawled out on the grass, enjoying what was left of the day. But then something caught his eye.

"Hey, did you see that?"

"See what?"

"_That_." He pointed in the direction that he'd seen the faint green glow. "Fireflies."

Kyle squinted and leaned over Stan, trying to catch a glimpse, but shook his head after a few moments. "I don't see anything."

"Maybe you're not looking the right way," Stan teased, and without warning, pulled Kyle down on top of him. He grabbed the other by the back of the neck and forced his gaze in the same direction he'd been looking before. "_Look_."

And in that brief moment, he felt Kyle's breathing hitch and his heartbeat quicken, and though he felt the other struggle to pull away, he held him close.

"Do you see it?" He wasn't sure anymore if he was talking about the fireflies or... something different.

And just like that, the struggling stopped. "Yeah... I think I do."


	22. Daytime Television Is A Menace

**Daytime Television Is A Menace**

Randy Marsh was not exactly what one might consider a consistent person. His flip-flopping nature coupled with is fervor for whatever was his current cause (though "cause" could easily be interchanged with "issue") only served to further his son's fairly accurate belief that his father was not only annoying and nigh impossible to deal with, but that he was also completely out of his gourd. As such, Stan preferred it when his father's issues had little to nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately for Stan, Randy had other ideas.

"Stanley?" Randy knocked on his son's bedroom door, and opened it without invitation. "We need to talk."

_Uh oh_. That phrase _never _brought anything good; even before he turned from his computer desk, a grimace had worked its way onto his sweating face. "Yeah dad?"

His father entered the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, motioning for Stan to come sit beside him, though he was reluctant to do so. "You're old enough now, so your mother and I decided it was time for... well..."

"For me to get my own car?" Stan supplied.

Randy blinked and scratched his head. "No." It seemed Stan's question had thrown him off, so his son offered more options.

"For you to drop my curfew? To give me a credit card?"

"Er... no, Stan. Nothing like that." For a moment it looked like he was ready to bolt from the room, anxiety so plain in his features, and Stan couldn't honestly say he would have minded. But then he continued, "It's time that we have a talk about, well... sex."

It took all of Stan's willpower not to groan or pinch his nose. "Dad. We've had this conversation before, remember? In fourth grade, after that flop of a Sex Ed class..."

"No no," Randy shook his head, "Not that. Not the, uh, mechanics of it."

_Then what the hell do you want?_ Stan wanted to ask, but thought better of it.

"Your mother and I are worried about you. You never seem to have a girlfriend anymore, not since elementary school, and... you're not selling your body, are you, Stan?"

Stan could only gape at his father for several long seconds before his violent reaction could burst forth. "_What? _No! Jesus Christ, dad! I'm not some kind of gigolo! What the hell?"

"Oh. Um. Well, good. It's not very healthy." Randy cleared his throat and looked around the room, seemingly ignoring the utter awkwardness of his question. "So you're not sleeping around? You haven't impregnated any girls or anything like that?"

This time, Stan _did _pinch his nose. "Dad, _no_, I'm-- I couldn't possibly have knocked anyone up. Why are you asking me these things?"

"It's important to establish an open, honest connection between parents and children," he replied, obviously quoting something he'd seen on daytime television. Oh God, he'd been watching daytime TV again. This couldn't possibly end well.

"Um... yes. Yes it is," Stan agreed slowly, as if unsure if this was the correct answer. "I'm glad we had this talk. Could you, uh, go now, please? I'm kind of busy."

"Not so fast, son!" Randy frowned. Was he _hurt _that Stan was trying to rush him out? "There's just one more thing."

_Oh God, please don't let it be what I think it is_, Stan begged silently.

"You're not... _gay_, are you, Stan?"

Stan just stared at his father as if he'd suddenly grown three heads. "Uh... what?"

"Because it's okay if you are. Hell, even if you do gay things, that doesn't make you gay. Nope, it sure doesn't. Not even jerking off in Mr. Mackey's jacuzzi in front of another guy, that doesn't make you gay..."

Randy was starting to get that neurotic _look _in his eyes, so Stan spoke up. "Uh, dad, you okay there? Maybe you should get a beer or something."

"Yeah... yeah, a beer. A beer sounds good. I could use a beer..."

Stan easily guided his dad to the door and patted him on the shoulder. "Glad we had this talk." _Let's do it again never_, he wanted to add, but he was satisfied to shut the door once Randy was gone.

"It's clear."

Kyle climbed out from under the bed with a huge, cheeky grin. "Shit, dude! Mackey's got a jacuzzi? We need to sneak over there sometime."

"What we _need _is a lock on my goddamn door."

"True enough." Kyle stood and brushed himself off, making an extra-disgusted face at few expired chips that fell from his curls. But soon the contents of the underside of Stan's bed were forgotten and he smirked. "So, what was that about honesty, hm? You sure you're not whoring yourself out? Not anyone's baby daddy?"

Stan made an unimpressed grunting noise and pushed Kyle onto his bed. "Not that I'm aware of. Unless you've been popping out ass-babies and not telling me." Kyle just laughed at that.

_So much for dad's TV-inspired "connection,"_ Stan thought, somewhat bemused. But at least he didn't lie. Not exactly.


	23. Argument Against Password Protection

A/N: First I'd like to apologize for more or less dropping SP for the past six months. Another fandom has sort of been eating my brain, if this drabble is any indication. But, um, hopefully this will jump-start my involvement here once again! Eheheh.

* * *

**Argument Against Password Protection **

There were times when Kyle severely wished that he were not a fan of the Harry Potter series. Or at least, that he did not share the unfortunate fandom with the fatass. Stan and Kenny he had no problem with, but Cartman just had to turn everything into a huge fucking _issue_.

"NO, Kahl! You can't be the Slytherin! I am!"

Kyle just rolled his eyes. "As much as I'd loathe being Sorted the same as you, there's no rule saying we can't be in the same House." He tried to remain calm and logical, even though he knew perfectly well that at any moment Cartman's growing tantrum would bait his ire.

"Like that even_matters_," Cartman huffed with all the self-importance he could muster. "You're obviously a book-wormy Ravenclaw, or a goody-two-shoes Hufflepuff."

"Okay, what the _fuck_, dude? First of all, Hufflepuffs have ethics - you know, those things you're incapable of comprehending. And Ravenclaws have a thirst for knowledge, while all you've got is your piglike appetite for unhealthy, grease-coated foods, you fucking fatass!"

"Don't you call me fat you fucking Jew!"

And so the argument devolved into petty insults and eventually a fistfight, as was usually the case between the two, ending with Cartman storming off and telling Kyle to go screw himself.

Stan just stared after Cartman and shook his head. "Did it really matter all that much? It's just a book series, dude."

"It's the principle of the matter, Stan," Kyle tried to explain as they began to walk back to his house. "He may be a manipulative bastard, but that gives him no right to tell me what I am or where my strengths lie."

This just earned him a sideways glance from his best friend. "And you think that Slytherin suits you best, then?" But he said it with a teasing air, not incredulous at all, since he knew Kyle well enough to know exactly what he thought of himself.

"Either that, or Hufflepuff," Kyle admitted with a shrug. "Slytherpuff? Whatever."

That made Stan grin. "Do I get to be a Gryffinpuff?"

"Pfft, no, you're completely Gryffindor." He jostled Stan's shoulder as he met his grin with one of his own.

"Yeah, right! You're just saying that because of your _thing _for Gryffindors," Stan pointed out, his grin turning to a triumphant smirk when his words managed to cause noticeable heat to rise in Kyle's cheeks. "But that's all right, isn't it? Because Slytherins are known for their strange _kinks_."

It was rather fortunate for Stan that they'd just managed to reach the house at that point. Otherwise, he might have found himself pushed down behind the nearest cover for the intense effect _that _had on Kyle.

Sometimes, Stan thought, it really paid off to be familiar with his boyfriend's extensive porn collection.


	24. In Lieu of Ladders

**In Lieu of Ladders**

"Remind me why I'm here again?"

Stan didn't actually expect a response to his self-directed mutterings, by Kyle gave an answer nonetheless. "Because you love me, now shut the fuck up and give me a hand."

Stan hated it when Kyle said things like that. He hated them because they actually _meant_ something to him. Kyle probably meant nothing by it, or meant it in a completely platonic way, which both added up to about the same thing as far as Stan was concerned. A mess of confusion, that's all it was.

Still, he gathered his wits about him and laced his fingers together, offering a step-up for Kyle to climb over Cartman's backyard fence. If Kyle and Cartman's stupid antagonism hadn't escalated over the years, then Cartman's mom wouldn't have had the damn thing built, and Stan wouldn't have been stuck there dealing with Kyle's newest form of retribution.

"Argh, I'm stuck!"

"Figures," Stan grumbled under his breath and rolled his eyes, which he doubted Kyle noticed due to his struggling with the chain link tangled with his shoelace. "Hold still, asshole! Nearly kicked me in the face… Dude, seriously, quit fucking moving for two seconds." Kyle finally ceased his thrashing and Stan freed Kyle's laces.

"Thanks, dude."

"Eh, whatever."

The two made their way over the fence without further issue. Once they made it to the shed, Kyle swore. Apparently Cartman had finally wizened up to how Kyle kept breaking into his room and moved the ladder elsewhere.

"C'mon dude, let's just go, you can get him back later."

"No, Stan! The fat fucker's got to pay!"

Stan barely managed to restrain a growl. Why did it matter so much to get Cartman back this time? Sure, the jackass deserved to have the living hell beat out of him, but it wasn't like he did something dreadful this time. All he did was insinuate that Kyle might have been not entirely straight. And he _wasn't_. But did that matter? No, of course not, because Cartman meant to be offensive, so of _course_ Kyle had to get back at him.

It didn't make a damn bit of sense.

"Are you really that insecure?" Stan huffed. He didn't even expect an answer and didn't bother looking at Kyle, instead starting to circle around under Cartman's window, searching for another way up.

"Of course not."

The quietly mumbled words caused Stan to turn and glance over his shoulder. "Could have fooled me." Stan knew he was baiting Kyle's ire, but he didn't really care at the moment.

"Oh _please_," Kyle snapped, his eyes glinting dangerously. "You're hardly one to talk about insecurity in that department."

"What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Before he could so much as blink, Stan found himself shoved up against the siding of the house, chafed paint flakes drifting in the air around him like dust motes. Kyle's rough grip on his shoulders pinned him there.

"You keep giving me this damned _look_, and you never fucking _say_ anything." Kyle must have seen a flash of recognition in Stan's eyes, because his glare instantly softened to something resembling affectionate frustration. "Stupid bastard."

"_You're_ the stupid bastard," Stan protested, albeit weakly. "Always saying shit… Never know what the fuck you mean by it."

Kyle buried one of his hands in Stan's mess of hair and tugged, hard. The next thing Stan was aware of was his lip being bitten sharply and his mouth being plundered. He barely registered the noises escaping his own throat until Kyle pulled away and he heard his own ragged breaths.

"Was that direct enough for you?"

Stan licked his lips and eyed Kyle. "Think so. Might need to double-check, though."

Kyle just smirked.

It wasn't until the next day that Stan could appreciate the irony of making out with Kyle under Cartman's window after the idiot had challenged his sexuality. He idly wondered if he should inform Cartman of their activities, just to see if the fatass would have an apoplectic fit.


End file.
